by Joe Corso
The boys all laughed. Red always had a way of saying it like it was.
One by one, the boys shook Red’s hand, gently gave him a hug, and headed toward the door. Swifty turned to Red before leaving.
“I’m headin’ back to Hollywood the Monday after the fight. Let me know when you’ll be comin’ out there and me and Shorty Davis’ll pick you up at the airport.”
“I’m not going anywhere just yet. I have some business to take care of. But don’t worry, I’ll get out there and you’ll know it. Take care, boys. It was good seeing you guys.”
The three young men left. When they were well out of sight, Red and Moose slipped back into the safety of their hidden room.
Chapter Seventeen
Red was walking up and down the long room, the heart of the Corona Gentleman’s Cub, when suddenly Moose bolted out from the safe room.
“Boss, get in here quick. You gotta see this.”
Red walked as fast as his still slightly weak legs could take him.
“What? What happened?”
“The President’s been killed.”
Shortly after Moose uttered those words, the back door of the club flew open and Trenchie came running in.
“Red, turn on the TV.”
“It’s on,” Red answered. “Because of what you told us, Moose has been glued to the TV since the President arrived. Moose just hollered for me to come in and see the news.”
“Yeah, the President’s been shot. Holy shit! He’s in Texas right?” Trenchie asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“Pretty slick the way they pulled it off. Shit, Sammy G was not kiddin’. He as much as told me where it was gonna happen. Made it look like Oswald did it by himself. Oswald’s the patsy. They would never use somebody like him for this job. They’d use a couple of pros.”
They turned the television sound up high in order to hear Walter Cronkite deliver the news to the world.
“Shortly after noon today on November 22, 1963, President John F. Kennedy was assassinated as he rode in a motorcade through Dealey Plaza in downtown Dallas. Texas.”
Three days later, when the furor over Kennedy’s assassination had died down, Tarzan, Trenchie, and Red were sitting together during one of their visits.
Tarzan said to Red, “Wanna know something funny? Piss Clams gets Life Magazine delivered to his home. His wife likes that magazine. They got the magazine this morning but here’s the kicker – the government stopped the sale of the magazine, because it has a complete photo section of some video footage shot by a guy named Abraham Zapruder. Piss Clams was lucky to get his copy because it was sent out before the government placed a hold on it. It shows Zapruder standing by the curb as Oswald supposedly fired three rifle shots from the sixth floor of the southeast corner window of the Texas School Book Depository. Now listen to this. Piss Clams showed all of us the magazine and one picture clearly shows a piece of Kennedy’s brain on the curb in front of him, Zapruder, but the Book Depository was behind Zapruder. If Oswald shot the President by himself, how the hell did brain matter land in front of Zapruder unless it was a triangulated shooting? Which means – there was another shooter targeting him from the other direction. Red, I’m tellin’ ya – this was a well thought out professional hit and my guess is that there was at least two, maybe three shooters takin’ out the president, not Oswald.”
“This’ll be a whitewash job,” Trenchie answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “They’ll look to close this case as fast as they can and they’ll pin it all on Oswald.”
A few months later, Trenchie would be sent by Red on a weekend trip to Hollywood to sign some corporate papers for their new movie studio. Trenchie took Mary. While there, Trenchie and Mary would have dinner with Sam Giancana and Phyllis McGuire, of the famous singing McGuire sisters. Sam waited until the wives left to powder their noses.
“Can you believe the bullshit the Feds are feedin’ the public?” he said more than asked. “They want this to go away and yet, it never will because of the crap they’re tryin’ to shove down our throats. The weapon don’t match the bullet. The bullet don’t match the holes. Oswald’s not a fit with what he’s accused of. He was a notoriously bad shot, but accordin’ to the official version, he was a champion caliber marksman and a surprisingly gifted gold medal sprinter. The Feds must have studied that Hitler psychopath, that doctor, the Joseph Goebbels man who said, ‘Tell a lie long enough, and people will believe it.’ Did you see the gun he used? It’s an old, obsolete, Italian piece of shit, but they’re sayin’ he fired it with surprisin’ speed, which even the FBI’s best shot couldn’t duplicate. One of ‘em did get the three shots off in the time Oswald supposedly did, but he didn’t aim the rifle when he did it. Then of course, there’s the magic bullet, which once it’s fired, turns and twists like an acrobat on a high wire. Yeah, it penetrated both Kennedy and the Governor, but the Governor somehow remains miraculously intact. What a crock of shit. But what amazes me is the public’s buyin’ this crap the government is dishin’ out.”
Giancana leaned back in his seat, puffed on his Cuban cigar while laughing at the absurdity of the story. He puffed again and let out a pillow of smoke.
“He got what he deserved,” he said. “Broke his word to the wrong guys. Bobby boy’s next. We’ll wait a while before we off him. Dead man walkin’.”
Using the ticket that Moose had bought for him earlier in the day, Red slipped into Sunnyside Gardens. The stylish, black wig covered his red hair completely. His eyebrows were darker, thanks to makeup, and he sported a false nose and a slightly protruding chin. Chuckles, a neighborhood guy, was the make–up artist for the Barnum and Bailey Circus. His expertise, using the same techniques he used for the clowns but with different colors, made Red look surprisingly natural as he sat in his upper level seat, completely inconspicuous. There was nothing odd about Moose sitting next to the “stranger” occupying the seat next to him.
Red scanned the audience looking for any sign of Feds that he knew would be there. They’d be looking for Trenchie and normally, they weren’t hard to spot, usually clean cut guys with crew cuts, trying to fit in by sitting next to guys with broken noses and long hair. Weird how they didn’t do a better job of blending in. Their mandatory dress code always gave them away.
The event was sold out so the promoters, anticipating that fans would be arriving from all over the country, and for that matter, the world, to see the famous movie star, Swifty, fight, sold standing only seats. This required permission from the New York City Fire Department, who in return, assigned men to the standing room sections on the first and second floors. This fight, however, did not have the blessing of Jack Bernstein and his Hollywood studio. The move mogul and his studio, for good reason, were worried about Swifty’s face and his health in general. Shortly after this fight, Swifty was scheduled to return to Hollywood to begin shooting a third movie. Nonsense such as this could delay production. It was risky.
Henri would be the first of Red’s three boys to fight. Gonzo, the heavyweight, would fight the main event last. Swifty’s bout was sandwiched between his two stable mates. The fighters were introduced prior to each fight by the legendary announcer Johnny Addy.
Henri fought the first of the three ten rounders with his usual class and style. He won his fight handily with a nine round TKO (technical knock out.)
The time had now come for Swifty. In true grandiose boxing style, the rear of the arena opened and Swifty came prancing down the aisle, throwing punches, firing up the crowd. A hooded silver robe with SWIFTY embroidered in large black letters on the back covered his body. It was as if a legend larger than life had entered the building. He danced past rows of adoring female fans, the women seemingly oblivious to their male escorts, screaming and carrying on like teenage girls. The men – husbands, boyfriends, office workers – just sat there watching their ladies. One woman turned to her male companion and passed a remark that had been on quite a few minds.
“So, he really is a fighter. I t
hought this was just the studio’s way of publicizing his movies.” The man nodded in agreement.
Gil Clancy, Swifty’s manager, removed his robe and handed it to the cut man to be taken away from the ring area. Swifty looked fit, ready for the fight, but this could easily turn out to be the toughest fight of Swifty’s career. His opponent? A formidable African fighter ranked number two in his weight class.
Round by round and toe to toe, they went at it. It seemed to go on forever with both fighters tiring in the later rounds. Swifty began talking to himself out loud, trying to psych out his opponent and psych up himself. Due to the pace of the fight, they were both running on fumes. Finally, summoning all his strength, Swifty managed an eleventh round knockout and he did so without any damage to his face – no broken nose, no busted eyes, nothing. Swifty was now ranked the Number Two middleweight in the world and in the process, had given his fans a fight unlike no other. What a night.
The following day, Sunday evening, the three boxers were invited to the Zebra Club for a six course Italian feast.
A lot had happened in recent days. Kennedy was dead and Lyndon B. Johnson, Kennedy’s Vice–President, had been sworn in as President. Immediately, LBJ had replaced Attorney General Robert Kennedy with Nicholas Katzenbach. Lonegan, meanwhile, had been called back to Washington, but Red had no way of knowing that. Until Red could secure a firm “all clear” from someone on the inside, he could not take a chance. Other agents might still be on the crusade to bring him down. Donning his disguise once again, Red was the surprise guest for the dinner honoring his fighters.
Chapter Eighteen
The Starlight Club was nothing more than a memory of the wonderful times and the guests it once held, its rubble a grim reminder of how something so grand could be reduced so quickly to ashes.
Red vowed to kill Lonegan, but first, he had to secure a new base for his operations. Once Lonegan was out of the picture, he could resurrect his Uncle Yip’s Corona Club and utilize it, once again, as the control center for the family’s businesses. But for now, he needed to find somewhere to conduct business without calling attention to himself or his men.
Red requested a meeting with Jake, the owner of the Zebra Club. At the meeting, he asked Jake if he would consider allowing Red and gang to work out of his club, temporarily, until things changed. The two men had been friends for twenty years. Jake handily agreed. This was a terrific imposition to someone and their business and to show his gratitude, Red made sure to gift Jake with a generous monthly stipend. Jake initially refused, but eventually relented, as there was always the hazard that business might be negatively affected by such rough men hanging around. Jake was wrong. Red ordered his men not to frequent the Zebra Club unless it was business related. As a result, business picked up, instead of dropping. With The Starlight Club now gone, Red’s faithful patrons migrated over to the Zebra Club. The arrangement benefited Jake monetarily and allowed Red a temporary base of operations until the Corona Gentleman’s Club could be used without fear of Lonegan’s interference. Red, still in disguise, would slip in and out most every day and no one outside his elite few confidantes knew.
Racket guys by nature are predatory. Once they settled into a comfortable place, it was normally not long before they owned the business from which they operated, whether it was their own or someone else’s. Taking a business by force or through intimidation was their MO with a business owner who would often find himself on the outside of his own business, looking in. Big Red Fortunato was an anomaly. Sure, he had a violent side when someone dealt in drugs, stole from him, threatened his life or livelihood, but one thing was certain – Big Red never knowingly hurt a friend. Jake knew that Red would never take the Zebra Club away from him. Most gangsters would not have compensated Jake at all. Rather, they would have justified their reasoning using perverted logic. That wasn’t Red’s style. He was wealthy, he paid his way wherever he went, and like Ben the doctor, Jake was taken care of every month. Red was respected in the community, known as a fair man who never took advantage of the little guy.
Red assigned Moose to hire an interior designer to furnish and decorate the empty home behind the Gentleman’s Club. It would be his home from now on. He asked Moose to contact John, the contractor, and have him build a tunnel, in the house cellar, that would terminate in the basement of the Corona Club – an easy escape from the safe room to the club. He cautioned Moose, “Tell him the entrance and exit of the tunnel must be completely invisible, use his magic, his design savvy, but make sure that even while standing right on top of it, no one would ever guess it’s there.”
As time passed, Red became less concerned that Lonegan might still be looking for him. The authorities thought Red had been killed in the destruction of The Starlight Club. Lonegan’s forensic team had found copious amounts of Red’s blood by the doorway where he had been shot. Red, however, remained cautious, always looking for signs of Lonegan and his men. There were none.
Months later, Red shed his disguise and made the decision to come out of hiding. He began walking the neighborhood to strengthen his leg muscles, gradually increasing his daily workout routine to strengthen the rest of his body and build up his stamina. But he always, always, had Shooter, Piss Clams, Tarzan or Trenchie with him whenever he walked.
Imagine the faces of the neighbors when word spread, like wildfire, that the “Don” had emerged. It was as if a ghost had appeared. The news had pronounced him dead, yet he was alive. Neighbors rejoiced and greeted him with smiles, nods, handshakes. When they approached him, Red would stop and talk, thrilling the locals. Their hero was alive. Confidence was restored.
One day, as Red was walking past the park with Moose and Tarzan, he glanced across the street and his eyes immediately lit up.
“Moose,” he said, “look – the Lemon Ice King. It’s been a looong time. I want one of his lemon ices.”
Red turned to Tarzan.
“You’re not from Corona, so you probably don’t know, but the owner of this little store makes lemon ice the way his father did in Italy – with real lemons that he squeezes himself. You mark my words – someday this little store will be famous.”
Red couldn’t remember a time when he enjoyed walking more than he did with his friends that day. He walked past the Lowe’s Plaza movie theatre, eating his lemon ice, and stopping to look in the window of the small appliance store next to the theatre. It was the same window, when he was twelve years old, where he had seen the very first color television set for sale in Corona. It was a small, twelve inch set. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing back then. The New York Giants baseball game was being broadcast in vivid color. He recalled how he had run home, screaming to Yip about the color TV and what he’d seen. He was full of questions.
“How does the green go through the wire and know it has to go to the grass or the blue to the sky? The colors don’t have brains. They can’t think. How can they know where to go?”
Yip was a little reluctant to believe Red’s story but at Red’s insistence, he accompanied him back to the store. Red told the story many times. Yip stood there as mesmerized as twelve-year-old Red.
“Red,” he said, just standing there staring, “from now, I’ll believe anything, I think. And I have no idea how those colors get into that box.”
Here in the present, Red once again stood there, staring, but there was nothing new to see in the window. He finished the lemon ice, threw the paper cup into a waste basket on the corner, and continued walking under the overhead El, parallel to Roosevelt Avenue. The three men turned right at the corner and Red smiled as he saw the friendly welcoming spiral of the red and white candy striped sign in front of Sam’s Barber Shop. Boy, after being in hiding for so long, small things were bringing him such pleasure. He walked through the door triggering a little bell as he entered. Sam the owner, turned to see who entered. Sporting a full smile, he stopped cutting his customer’s hair and rushed right over to him.
“Buon giorno, Don Fortunato.”
The old Italians were sticklers for propriety and he was pleased with the respect Sam showed him, but this wasn’t Italy.
“Please, Sam, call me ‘Red.’”
Two other barbers, Louis and Anthony, came over and congratulated Red on how well he looked and soon customers, one with an apron with remnants of cut hair, and another, his face slathered in shaving cream, left their chairs to approach and welcome Big Red. Each offered his hand. Red was touched by their overtures. The older men were friends he had known for years. They were truly happy that their community leader had recovered from his wounds. Allegiance was on Red’s side. What the government had attempted, by trying to kill Red, was considered abominable.
Sam asked Red to sit down and walked toward the back of the shop. He soon returned, carrying a tray with a small pot of espresso, a bottle of Anisette, and a few biscotti. This old barber shop had once been a meeting place for longtime friends in Corona since well before Red was born and at the moment, the mood in the little shop was festive.
Red’s eyes followed a long line of different-colored bottles set in front of a mirror, all containing fragrances. He turned his gaze from the colored bottles to the honest faces of the old men working there. Louie had been a classical clarinetist as a young man in Calabria and Anthony had once played clarinet and sax in Artie Shaw’s orchestra. As a way of supplementing his barber income, Anthony now gave clarinet lessons in the evenings to youngsters from the neighborhood. Red felt safe here – he was among friends who loved him. The room was filled with a beautiful cross section of Italians, all immigrants or offspring of immigrants, who had come to this country for the wonders that America held. Red used to say, “I’m an American with Italian roots.”
